The waves are still the same and you sit down on the rock and finally the tears that haven’t come all year, come slowly and then with gathering force until your face is a hot river and you wish more than anything to become that river entirely and disappear into the sea. You realise that it will never stop hurting. You realise that every birthday, hers and yours, you will welcome the sadness because it will be the only way you have left of having her again, just for a little while. You realise that you’ve already forgotten little things, little gestures, little expressions and you wish for the thousandth time that you had taken the large, unwieldy home video camera to her and captured everything about her so that you would not have to live your life feeling yourself forget little by little.
When the tears finally stop, you take out a notebook that you found by going back to Nusrat’s neighbourhood and going to the store that she used to go to. It’s just like the one Nusrat always had.
Dear Nusrat,
Happy birthday! You’re eighteen today which is like totally an adult. I’ve been an adult for three months now which is awesome but it’s really more of a feeling than anything else because it’s not like anything is that different. I mean I can’t even vote because my voter ID card has the picture of a GUY on it and he’s not even cute. It’s totally upsetting.
We sang Happy Birthday to you at our Peace Committee meeting today and your mom cried. The stupid school is again making noises about throwing us out because they are like worried that there will be more riots because you know the Shiv Sena is up to its tricks again.
But whatever, don’t worry Nusrat. Because the riots won’t happen again. We’re doing this Peace Committee stuff in every sensitive neighbourhood which is what the police call any neighbourhood with a lot of Muslims in it. People play cricket and watch movies. I don’t think the slum people even know what it’s for—for them it’s probably just like free cricket and movies and samosas and tea. But whatever, if it works who cares.
On your birthday there was a special match that your dad organised. I’m still a bit scared of him but he like ADORES me. He is so happy when I go to visit them. Anyway, today’s match was with the police and everyone was laughing at how funny the fat ones looked running between the wickets but I didn’t laugh because I was so busy trying not to FAINT from the body odour.
So remember how I like do a brave Nusrat thing every month? Last month I did my classical dance recital. You know. You were there. I know you were there. Didn’t I look sexy? If only my mom had let me make my blouse a little lower. She hates me obviously.
My brave Nusrat thing for this month is to go down to our spot by the sea. I’m sitting here now. You can like probably see me. I hope so because I’m wearing that shirt you really like, the purple one with polka dots that made you laugh.
There’s a new guy in college who is pretty hot. All the losers from the suburbs call him the Western Looking Guy. Can you imagine? So ridiculous. But he totally checked me out today. I mean he better have. I was wearing my new jeans that make my butt look so good.
Anyway, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope you’re having super fun wherever you are and just for you, I just stopped writing and smiled at the sky. Did you see? I’m wearing the earrings I got for you and me. I gave yours to your mom to keep.
I’ll never know if you knew, Nusrat. I keep going over and over that day in my mind but I don’t know if you saw me. I wish I had told you that you are my best friend. I wish I had told you. I wish I had told you how much I liked it when you put your hand on my head and stroked my hair. I wish I had told you that when you put your arms around me that day when my mom was beating me, I felt so happy I thought my heart would burst. I wish I had told you that I love you more than anyone, even more than my mom and even more than my dad.
Anyway, I’m going to keep writing to you, you know. It’s kind of like having you here. I’m going to use a pencil like you did. It’s nice here right now, sitting where we used to sit. It’s like you are here. And I can put my head on your shoulder and you will put your arm around me. Your hands are so soft and your arms are so strong.
Nusrat, my Nusrat.
The sun is going down and I can’t really see enough to keep writing so I guess I’ll end here. I will always love you. Always have. Always will.
Yours,
Tania
PS—What do you think? It doesn’t matter. I will still write to you. This is only a first letter.
Acknowledgements
Like every writer, I owe much to those who have supported this stubborn dreaming. To every writer I’ve read (especially the women writers), my grandfathers, my parents and my sister: thank you.
Thank you Himanjali Sankar, perspicacious editor and friend. Faiza Khan, Anurima Roy and everyone else at Bloomsbury India, thank you for your cheerful, canny support. I would never have inched beyond the idea without my wonderful friends who kept me going through innumerable bad starts and drafts. Strangers across the world have become mentors and friends in the writing of this book – thank you. Thank you Juthika Nagpal for being a sister to the girls, Nadia Majeed and Janice Huang for your needle-eyed reads amidst squalling babies and Chitra Ganguli, most exacting reader, whose memory of those days in 1992 kept it real. Thank you Shankar Ganguli for lighting the flame long ago and tending to it always. Every dreamer should have a champion like you.
Thank you Bombay and Karachi for being the beautiful, ugly, horror-ridden, life-giving cities that you are, stubbornly holding on to the banks of the grey Arabian, promising everything, giving everything and taking everything. No riot will destroy you and no one idea will overpower you. Here’s to you and here’s to the children who grow up in you.
Tanya Tania Page 19